


Low Frequency

by sunbreaksdown



Category: Gunnerkrigg Court
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things worse than spiders that creep from the corners of Zimmy's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low Frequency

     She hasn't seen her parents' faces in years. 

     Maybe they never had them in the first place. Not to show to her, anyway.

     She's got her hands balled into clammy fists at her sides, eyes fixed on the edge of the slanted kitchen table. Someone's smoking: there's a fog drifting around the ceiling and then sinking lower, obscuring her vision even more than inky black gunk surrounding her eyes. Her father's fingers wrap around a white and red carton, skin dry and chapped, nails yellow; he crushes it in his hand. Zimmy doesn't look up, doesn't try to meet their eyeless faces, the scribbled static where features should be.

     “Now you listen good, Zeta,” he says, “We won't be having her around here. Don't want none of her sort— don't even speak bleedin' English, does she?”

     It feels like they've been arguing this over for hours, though Zimmy doesn't even remember how she came to be in the kitchen. She grits her teeth, mismatched rows of fangs coming together as neatly as two broken bottles, and the only reason she doesn't lunge forward is because, all of a sudden, she realises that Gamma isn't standing behind her. It's only her own shadow that resides in her blind spot, and she brings up a hand, rubbing the heel of a palm roughly against an eye socket, as if it's going to make things any clearer.

     She must be outside, still, waiting for her. In an alleyway, alone or worse, waiting to be allowed into the house that Zimmy's always been a stranger in. She's always gone unnoticed, and she doesn't see why Gamma should be any different. Why she should take up any more space. It's hardly as if Zimmy makes use of her own bed.

     The pressure mounts behind Zimmy's forehead and against her temples, _thump-thump-thump_ , and when she finally tears herself from the spot, the whole floor trembles. Chequered tiles slide away from one another, until the black ones become shadows, then holes. Zimmy's balanced on the white blots her vision just about makes out as the whole kitchen tilts to the side, walls screeching, when a hand presses to her shoulder.

     She turns on her heels, and there Gamma is: safe and sound, in one piece and smiling. Zimmy parts her lips, but before she can ask her what the hell she's doing there, she realises what it all means. This isn't real. The kitchen, her parents, the shaking foundations of a house that was never really her home; they aren't in Birmingham. They haven't been there for a long time, but it's so, so easy for Zimmy's mind to slip back.

     Gamma's grip loosens on her shoulder, and Zimmy's clutching the sleeve of her jumper, not wanting her to step away. Gamma tilts her head to the side and smiles brighter, long-suffering, hand moving to Zimmy's cheek to remind her of how much she can and does trust her. Zimmy relents, fists bundled at her sides again, and lets Gamma do what she has to. What she needs her to.

     Gamma steps across the floor that isn't a floor, touches one figure ( _gop_ ) and then another ( _gop_ ), until it's only the two of them, stood in the ruins of a memory. She finds her way back to Zimmy, smiling in the face of it all. Zimmy's arms wrap around her waist and she sniffs loudly, face buried in Gamma's shoulder. Hands press to the mess of her hair, and the pounding in her head becomes and buzz and then a whine, followed by a warble, like a radio being tuned-in at a low frequency. 

     Everything slides back into place, and with a _blip_ , they get out of her head.

*

     There are hundreds of disused rooms in and below the Court, and plenty of passageways that should've been long since sealed off. There are corners that not even the rats scurry to, and here, Zimmy and Gamma can hide away, as well as anyone can hope to remain undetected by the Court.

     “My parents weren't no demons,” Zimmy grumbles, back to Gamma. She's got her arms folded across her chest, and she doesn't allow the sentiment to filter into her thoughts. It's been eight days since it last rained and there's a storm brewing behind her eyes. Gamma doesn't understand what Zimmy's saying in its entirety, but she does catch one word: demons. 

     Putting her book down, Gamma crosses the room, hands splayed against Zimmy's back. 

     _I don't think you're a demon_ , Gamma thinks, feeling Zimmy's shoulder blades rise like the gate of a sluice. 

     “Didn't say _I_ was a demon,” Zimmy says, thinks, batting Gamma's hands away as she turns, striding the length of the room.

     _That's not what I meant._ Gamma follows Zimmy, sitting next to her when she abruptly drops to the floor, slouched against the wall. _What were you trying to say, Zimmy?_

     _Don't matter_ , she thinks thickly, walls rising in her mind. Gamma wraps her arms around her knees, leaning forward as she watches Zimmy rock on the spot, thwacking her hands against her face and arms to squash spiders that aren't there. Gamma reaches out, slowly, tucking Zimmy's tangle of hair back behind her ears, like she's dusting away cobwebs. She thinks, warmly, that it'll rain soon, and Zimmy huffs, scratching irritably at the back of her neck.

     “Bloody well better.”

*

     When the Court takes Zimmy for her treatments, Gamma's made to wait outside. _Treatments_ , Zimmy thinks at her, but it comes out more like _testing_ ; it's closer to an experiment than anything else. Gamma sits on plain white bench that runs the length of a corridor that no other students ever wander down, and though there's only a wall between her and Zimmy, they're completely cut off from one another.

     Gamma tilts her head back, resting it against the wall, and with her eyes shut, tries to let her thoughts filter towards Zimmy. She doesn't know what they make the walls out of, but nothing penetrates them. Not even sound. And so she waits, hands folded neatly in her lap, always wondering if they're going to let Zimmy out, this time. She doesn't dare to think about what would happen to her, if they did decide to keep Zimmy for themselves: they only keep her around because she placates the darker things in Zimmy's mind. They're bound to find a replacement for her, eventually.

     But when it's all said and done, the Court owns them both already. They always wind up here, whether Zimmy chooses to struggle against them or otherwise. Lately, she hasn't put up much of a fight beyond her usual shrieking and swearing. They say that it's for Zimmy's own good, that they're only trying to find a way to help her, but Gamma knows better than to trust so blindly. If they could manipulate Zimmy's powers for their own, then there wouldn't be a single thing that could stand between them and what they wanted.

     When Zimmy emerges, she looks like a faded stain that's never going to wash out. They've tried to clean her up, tried to rub at her eyes and between her teeth, but it doesn't do any good. Showers, baths; none of them work. Her body rejects each and every drop of water, unless it falls from the sky itself.

     _Let's go back_ , Gamma thinks, arm wrapping around Zimmy's waist. Zimmy hisses, neither wanting nor needing to be steadied, but has an arm around Gamma's shoulders quickly enough.

     Zimmy's never been touched by sleep and doesn't know how to feel tired, but at times like these, Gamma sees the exhaustion written into every crease and shadow. As they walk, away from the deeper, darker parts of the Court, Gamma tries to keep everything on the surface of her mind warm and light; they could get something to eat, whatever Zimmy feels like, or they could go to the library, where Gamma will read to her. 

     But Zimmy, body as tense as tree trunks, joints like knots, stops mid-stride, face burying in Gamma's neck. She murmurs something, stuff and nonsense, and Gamma looks up to the window, seeing clear-blue skies above. There isn't so much as a cloud in the sky; it's been the driest autumn since 1978. 

     _They wants me to see whatever they need me to see. Wanna control it like they can just pluck out whatever, then chase all the spiders down like I ain't never gonna die in that world of mine, one of these days._

*

     It rains on Wednesday morning, long before dawn breaks.

     It's dark outside and they don't even hear it patter against the rooftops, against the windows, but there's a little spray against the glass, visible when Gamma shines a torch up against it. Most of the lights in the Court work on sensors, and students aren't meant to roam the hallways before six; there's no reason that they'd flicker on, just for the two of them.

     They go outside, only to be met with drizzle. There isn't even enough cloud in the sky to obscure the moon, and Zimmy's mind has become harder than ever to wade through. _Click-click-click_ it goes, stuttering like a cassette being forced to fast-forward beyond the limits of the tape spooled up inside.

     Zimmy holds her hands out, tilts her head back. In the pale moonlight, Gamma sees the spray rest atop Zimmy's hair, like morning dew weighing down long grass. She doubts anyone else could ever see her in this way: all they'd see is the black around her eyes, the scowl on her face, and the sharpness of her teeth.

     The sparse splattering of rain does nothing to help Zimmy. There just isn't enough of it. It washes the surface tension away, and then dissipates, leaving the real wound open and raw. Gamma stays with her until the sun begins to rise and their uniforms are damp, and wraps both hands around one of Zimmy's, when the dim morning light shows that the clouds have all but retreated.

     “Bastards,” Zimmy hisses, cursing the sky. She laughs, short and sharp, and the sound clashes against the corners of her teeth. “See if I care what happens to all of yous! See if I don't just let everything fall out of me skull and into your stupid school.”

     She holds her arms out, gesturing at the Court all around them, lips curled into a smile. Gamma wonders, sometimes, if the whole land would be as black as Zimmy's eyes, if she wasn't there to step forward and wrap her arms around her. She pushes herself up on tiptoes, chin on Zimmy's shoulder, and tuts fondly into her ear.

     _There, there. I love you far too much for all of that, Zimmy_ , she tells her, though she must know as much, by now.

     “Heh.” Zimmy crinkles her nose, scrubbing the last few drops of drizzle from her face. “You're right. Theys ain't good enough for none of that.”

*

     They toy with the idea of running away, every now and again, but know that there's nowhere else for them to go. No matter what the Court wants from Zimmy, it still manages to keep the two of them safe from the streets, and Zimmy wouldn't put it past them to use Gamma for their own ends. At Gunnerkrigg, if nothing else, Carver is around. She's a flame of a girl, and there's something about her that _helps_ ; it has to be enough when Gamma isn't around to heal. 

     Zimmy used to speak about escaping to Gillitie Wood, but if ancient creatures from the heart of the forest consider her to be a demon, she doesn't think she'd have much more luck over there.

     Now, she lies on her side, no matter how unfamiliar the position is to her. She just doesn't know how to get comfortable, whether she's laid out on a mattress, the floor, or the pile of blankets that Gamma's prepared for her, this time. It's been twelve days. Twelve days without a real rain, and when it finally does pour down, it's going to trickle into the cracks that've opened up in her mind. 

     She doesn't think in words. Doesn't even think in pictures, anymore. There are fragments that flow through her mind, disjointed echoes of a future she's certain is soon to become her reality, and Gamma closes her eyes tightly, no matter how dangerous that may be. She can't afford to drift off, not when Zimmy's this temperamental, and she can't shut out her thoughts, either. It wouldn't be fair, to expect Zimmy to suffer through this alone, and so she keeps her mind open, as if she can ease the burden by sharing it.

     In the back of Zimmy's mind, she sees the whitelegs rising, feels the layers between skin and sinew wither and wilt; Zimmy's eyes, like two pieces of coal, are as deep as space, and her tongue is a slug, squirming behind her lips, tumbling down the front of her shirt. The shadows in the corner of the room begin to shift, the edges forming the front paws of a crippled hyena-god that lives in the back of Zimmy's head.

     Gamma opens her eyes, all at once, and the hum of Zimmy's incoherence is replaced by a low buzz, as the darkness is pushed back into place for a little longer.

*

     The heavens open three days later.

     Zimmy dances in puddles, socks squelching inside of her shoes, while Gamma rests beneath a sturdy oak tree. The canopy of leaves protects her from the elements, more or less, but by this point, Gamma doesn't think the force of a tidal wave could keep sleep at bay.

*

 

     They build a fort in the corner of the library where the foreign language books are kept, using blankets as red as Zimmy's eyes. Gamma sits with a tattered copy of _Na brzegu rzeki Piedry usiadłam i płakałam_ perched on the edge of one knee. The spine gives a satisfying creak when she folds the book open, and Zimmy shuffles and squirms at her side, stubbornly determined not to get comfortable.

     “This is stupid!” she announces, and grabs the edge of a shelf to pull herself up, before Gamma catches her by the scruff of her collar, tugging her back down. “I don't wanna read! Yous know I can't make out a damn word, Gamma.”

     “Shhhh,” Gamma says, pressing her cheek to Zimmy's. _I'm going to read to you, so stop squirming._

     Zimmy does as she's told, after a bout of wiggling and huffing, and slumps against her shoulder. She looks up at Gamma, and though the shadows are already creeping around the edges of her eyes, the red's still there, bright as anything. Gamma scrunches up her face, smiling so widely that her eyes close, and leans down to kiss Zimmy's forehead. Zimmy grumbles and laughs, makes a sound like a rattling wheeze, and squeezes her waist tighter.

     At times like these, when Gamma's had her sleep and Zimmy's been washed clean by the rain, it's difficult to remember how the past few weeks have felt. It's all but impossible to imagine the constant crack of Zimmy's mind when she couldn't get through to her, and the way thoughts darker than her hallucinations seeped out from the splintered fractures.

     Gamma turns to the first page, and begins reading to herself, silently. There's no need to worry about anything becoming lost in translation; the words run through her mind, draining away until only the meaning remains, and that, in turn, is passed on to Zimmy. She smiles as Gamma does, jagged teeth on show, and Gamma feels her thoughts filter into her own, not interrupting the flow of the text. 

     _Wouldn't wanna go back to 'em, anyways_ , her thoughts hum cleanly, _Don't reckon they even know I'm missing!_

     Gamma hums in agreement, though what Zimmy says seems absurd: she can't imagine anyone not being starkly aware that Zimmy isn't around. Zimmy settles against her, as she always does, protests worn to the bone, and they're eight pages in before Gamma realises that she hasn't once had to worry about what takes root in the shade cast by bookcases. 

     _You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to, Zimmy_ , she thinks as she turns the page, though it isn't strictly true. The Court will always pull them apart, when it deems necessary, but one day, they're going to find a safe way out of there. One day, they'll find themselves on the rainiest patch of the globe, where sleep comes as often as the clouds roll through the open skies, and they won't have to worry about spiders or shadows or things that slither and creep.

     But until then, it's a matter of appreciating the calm that presses down upon them while the grass still smells damp. The ring of red around Zimmy's eyes won't be there forever, but Gamma rests safe in the knowledge that even the darkest of blacks won't chase her away.


End file.
